


Under This Armored Skin

by deervsheadlights



Series: Bare(d) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Because it's Tony, Body Image, Body Worship, But also, Crying During Sex, Emotional Sex, Established Relationship, Insecure Tony, Light Angst, M/M, Mirror Sex, Pillow Talk, Porn with Feelings, Reassuring Steve, Self-Worth Issues, Some Humor, They've Been Together THAT Long, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27330643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deervsheadlights/pseuds/deervsheadlights
Summary: Tony is convinced what's looking back at him from the mirror isn't very desirable anymore.Steve's never been happier to prove him wrong (but good things take time).
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Bare(d) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995436
Comments: 14
Kudos: 103





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 10k+ of porn & feelings because apparently i have a lot of thoughts about this. who knew?
> 
> this is a direct continuation to the first work in the series–technically one story, but i wanted to keep them separate for rating-related reasons. the other one sets the scene and gives context to tony's thoughts though, so i recommend you don't skip it!
> 
> to everyone who requested this, i hope you deem it worth the wait. :)

Tony regards his naked counterpart in the mirror with a disgruntled look as Steve mouths a sensitive spot at his throat, leaving wet patches where he's laved over the skin with his tongue.

"I love this about you," Steve says, _again,_ hands now rubbing up and down his sides and finally resting at his waist. His hands are big and his fingers splay out wide above Tony's stomach, the difference in their complexion strikingly pleasing to the eye. His hold tightens a fraction, and it makes for a sense of security that Tony subconsciously latches onto amidst the newness of the situation. 

Steve's lips trace a string of kisses over his collarbone, his hot breath grazing his skin as he mumbles, "Strong but compact. So I get to hold you like this. 's a perfect fit." 

This is weird. Tony feels weird. 

He remembers perfectly well what Steve said he would do as countermeasure to his most recent, ~~unpleasant~~ disastrous self-reflection, but he didn't expect him to take it all that seriously. 

Sure, the wording went somewhere along the lines of him wanting to 'worship every part of Tony in excruciating detail, inside and out' but Tony chalked that up to the heat of the moment. Besides, the majority of the last ten minutes he's been preoccupied thinking about whether _inside_ was to be taken literally or not, because his disappointment would be immeasurable if Steve decided its meaning was to remain PG. 

Compliments tailored to his emotional and personal values? Psh. Hell no. Tony'd choose having his guts rearranged over that any day. 

Truth be told, he figured he'd get an evening of extraordinarily extensive lovemaking and maybe some sappier-than-usual pillow talk whispered here and there, but nothing that would differ much from their usual procedure. 

Steve's not a man of half measures though, and far be it from him to put his mind to this thing and then not execute it accordingly. Tony should’ve seen that coming; unless he's in a joking mood, Steve rarely says things he doesn't mean. This is just the youngest instance of that uncompromising earnestness coming into play. 

_Figures._ Tony huffs an exasperated half-laugh to himself, disrupting Steve where he's pressing a line of kisses down Tony's chest as far as he can reach from his position. Steve’s still behind him, hands having taken to kneading the softness at his belly. Yeah, Tony is still on the fence about whether he likes that. At all.

"What's so funny up there?" 

Tony sees him glancing at the mirror and schools his expression to suppress the smirk threatening to overtake his features. 

"Nothing, big guy. Just… thinking." 

Steve lifts an eyebrow in question, still looking at him as his mouth makes its way up his chest again, nibbling at the skin with a hint of teeth while Tony does his best to respond without letting that gasp at the tip of his tongue slip out.

“About you,” he says. Not the whole truth, but also not a lie. 

A response comes in the shape of Steve’s hard-on giving a noticeable twitch. Ah. Why does he have a feeling that man's going to be insatiable tonight? 

Steve doesn't react beyond the obvious, only straightens to pull Tony closer until there’s no space left between their bodies. Tony hums as he feels Steve’s bulge press against his bare ass. 

“This is just for you,” Steve says, meeting Tony's backside with a push of his hips. “Always. Just you. You do this to me, Tony.”

His voice has dropped a few octaves, and Tony has to swallow. His own cock is at half-mast, standing against his thigh untouched. 

He wonders how far Steve will take this. Tony isn’t about to back down from a challenge, but if Steve plans to lead them through this whole evening under the banner of Fixing Tony’s Deep-Seated Insecurities, he might come out feeling pretty discouraged. He means well, but that doesn’t change anything about the sobering reality that he can’t just fuck some self-worth into him, no matter how hard he might try or how much of an expert he may have become at the fucking part. 

In lieu of acknowledging the subliminal statement in Steve’s words, Tony responds to the more surface-level message. “Mh–how about you make use of it, then?”

Although it's obvious the inquiry is an attempt at deflection, Steve lets it slide. For the moment. Tony isn't delusional enough to think this isn't bound to come up again during the course of the evening. At the time being though, Steve only meets his gaze in the mirror with a dark, heated gleam in his eyes that sends a buzz zapping through Tony, and slides both hands underneath his thighs to pick him up in a sitting position. 

Tony bites his lip. No, the super-powered manhandling is never not going to be hot. 

Within seconds, they're on the bed, Steve gently guiding him onto his back. Tony's patience snaps as he watches Steve settle between his legs, still fully (unfairly) clothed. He's being deprived of his rights here, and that just won't do. 

Except Steve has other plans, because when Tony sits up and starts working at the buttons of his shirt, the other man takes hold of both his wrists and decidedly peels his fingers off. He leans over him as he brings their hands up next to Tony's head, pressing them into the mattress alongside his body. 

His smile is broad and fond despite the devious edge there is to it. "Oh, no. I want you to stay right here, look pretty and listen to me."

So _this_ is how it's going to be tonight. 

Tony can't say he minds, although he does have half a mind to point out some flaws in Steve's last statement. Calling the middle-aged guy with crow's feet who's already in a more-salt-than-pepper situation _pretty_ out of all things is a bit of a stretch, no? 

The last time he was referred to as such would have been in his late teens. Indeed, Tony Stark was jailbait once.

You don't get to suck about half of MIT's dicks by virtue of your wunderkind title–even though a lot of them definitely got off on seeing the Stark kid, resident genius, on his knees. That position of power never was what it was made out to be, because anyone who put their genitals anywhere near his mouth was at _his_ mercy, not the other way around. 

Steve kisses his forehead, and Tony shoves the thoughts away to regard him with a curious look. Out of all the places he expected to be touched first, this wasn’t one of them.

“Your brain is beautiful,” Steve says, smiling, and then leans down to map out a path from Tony’s cheeks, over his jaw, to his throat and neck, all the while repeating the phrase in different variations but the same, reverent tone. It’s cheesy and Tony is surprised he hasn’t burst into laughter yet, but a part–tiny, microscopic really–is unreasonably charmed by the unhampered display of Steve’s attraction.

How in hell he’s ended up the recipient of this man’s unending affection may be an enigma, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy what's being given. Tony pillows his head on his crossed arms and settles in for a longer session. Steve’s lips linger on the scarred center of his chest for a moment longer than they did on any of the other spots, and it feels as though his skin retains some of their warmth when they detach from him.

“Your scars are beautiful,” Steve says, his breath a fluttering caress over the marred, ugly skin. Tony shudders for no particular reason, swallows as he returns his gaze that is as earnest and loving as it is blue. 

Steve moves on, follows the dusting of hair on his torso down and down, his hands a steady point of contact at Tony's sides. He reaches Tony's stomach and draws a circle of kisses around his belly button. 

“You.” Kiss. 

“Are.” Kiss. 

“Beautiful.” Kiss. 

His fingers squeeze around the space above Tony’s hips; it’s that soft place where the hint of love handles comes in when he’s not lying down. 

Next, Steve moves over to the left, making a point of avoiding the space between his legs that’s begging for attention most. He noses the crease at the junction between leg and hip, taking his time as he navigates the familiar landmarks on Tony's body. It's always a little unsettling, to be met with Steve’s kind of attentiveness–the one that leaves you feeling bare no matter whether you're undressed or not and makes it harder to hide the more you try. 

Tony gave up on that endeavor a few years back. 

Steve nips at the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh, one of the spots that will unfailingly draw sounds from him every time. Tony gasps a little and spreads his legs wider on instinct, or in the hope that Steve will finally stop playing with him and go where his mouth is _really_ needed. 

Sudden, wet heat around his half-hard dick has him sucking in a lungful of air through his teeth. The only circumstance that's keeping him from rutting into Steve's mouth is the man's hands firmly keeping his hips pinned to the mattress. 

Tony digs his fingers into the pillow under his head when he looks down and is met with a picture that belongs in an art gallery (and isn't that an idea, putting Steve Rogers sucking his cock out there for everyone to see). Steve's always been lethal with his mouth, and yet it's not only the feeling but the sight of him, how his lips fit around Tony's length and his tongue darts out to circle the head when he pulls off. 

"And," Steve says, dark blue gaze twinkling with mischief just before he goes down on him again, "I think you know this is beautiful." 

_You might just send this old man to an early grave, Rogers._

Tony doesn't say so, because Steve doesn't like to hear these things no matter that they're joking in nature, and he figures he probably wouldn't manage much but incoherent babble anyway. He instead enjoys the glide of Steve's mouth around him, all-encompassing when he swallows every last inch and teasing when he licks stripes along his shaft and over the tip. 

Then however, Steve has the audacity to pull away entirely, leaving his now proudly standing erection glistening with spit against his belly. Tony groans at the sudden loss of stimulation, ready to complain, but the words get stuck in his throat when the reason for Steve's retreat becomes clear. 

The wait was worth it, Tony decides, as he watches his favorite shirt and the tailored pants get discarded, exposing those endless plains of muscle and milky skin that turns golden in the warm light. To no one's surprise, Steve's cock is already fully erect without having received a single touch. The sight is drool-worthy, and knowing that this eight-inch delight is going to be _all_ his in just a moment sends a shockwave of desire through his whole being. 

Tony grumbles, a bit of a caveman-ish sound. Okay, he's been patient enough. 

"This. In me. Right now," he says, pointing in the vague direction of Steve's dick. 

The other man has it in him to lift an eyebrow, amused as well as sceptical. As one of his hands traces the inside of Tony's thigh and disappears behind his balls, the hint of a grin plays at his lips. 

"Right now? Are you sure? Because I don't think…“ 

He trails off, breath hitching. Gratified, Tony watches the cocky expression give way to a stunned one. Steve's eyes widen a fraction and his tongue darts out to wet his lips in a subconscious reaction to his fingers coming in touch with the butt plug. 

What? Steve isn't the only one with ulterior motives here. Today was supposed to be their night out, and Tony was very much looking forward to getting dinner, having a relaxed conversation with and simply enjoying the presence of his boyfriend all the while being constantly reminded of what will be waiting for him once they're home. 

(Or once they're in the car, if they really can't wait. Or the toilet stall, if they really, _really_ can't wait. Well–the last one's been off the table ever since they got publicly barred from one of their favorite diners and Pepper threatened to castrate him in vivid detail and a tone of voice that made explicitly clear how much she was not joking.) 

There's also the neat side benefit that the continuous pressure from the plug gets him hot enough his performance significantly improves when they're actually getting down to business. Win-win for everyone involved. 

If there's one quality about him that's not a scam, it's that Tony Stark always has an ace up his–not always the _figurative_ sleeve, but you get the gist. Plus, he can be awfully efficient when he wants to be, and since he likes taking long showers anyway, he might as well use the opportunity for some added fun. 

Tony sends out a silent 'thanks' to his past self, because damn if he hasn't earned the genius title and those five PhDs. Steve is still enjoying this just as much as he did the very first time around–he's fondling the end of the glass plug, shifting and then pressing against it with his thumb. Tony can't suppress a soft moan at the sensation. 

"Jeez, Tony, you're," Steve's voice is breathy, and he has to swallow before he continues. "You're so–I can't believe you'd think you can't keep up with _me_ when you're the most perfect thing I've ever had the fortune of laying my eyes on. It's just, it doesn't make sense. Everything–" 

His words taper off into a shuddering exhale, and then he's suddenly hovering over Tony and leaning down, lips closing around his for a fervent kiss before Tony can think of something deflecting to say or mildly self-deprecating to joke about. While Steve's tongue pushes into his mouth, his fingers continue to play with the plug, only pulling it free once he's coaxed another moan out of Tony that he muffles by smashing their mouths together again. 

"Everything about you, everything's so everywhere, there's so _much,_ and I mean that in all the best ways, _"_ Steve says, his gaze heated and intimate while his breath ghosts over Tony's still parted lips. "There's–so much fire, and brilliance and _beauty_ here and sometimes it–I'm mad because I can't possibly put it into words or explain how–" 

He ~~kisses~~ ravages Tony again. Somewhere far away Tony notices him rummaging through the nightstand at their left, but it's all drowned out by the urgency of Steve's declaration and the memory of his gaze boring into Tony's, almost in pleading as though his understanding of Steve's feelings is somehow paramount to the other man's very survival. 

The vehemence of his passion is making Tony's blood rush in his ears, the want to finally make their bodies join almost unbearable as it suddenly transforms from a purely physical need to the desire to be close and connected in every way possible. 

Tony is embarrassed to find that the sound he utters at the first touch of Steve's fingers to his hole isn't a moan, or a grunt, or any of those sensible things. No–he whimpers, desperate and already wretched despite the fact that nothing earth-shattering has happened as of yet. 

It's scary to a degree, because in the end, this is testament to the grip Steve has on him, the power he has over his emotions and the ease with which he could turn that against him. Tony only entertains that thought for a moment, and then he makes the conscious decision to abandon it because he loves Steve and he _trusts_ him and it's been a near decade in which he hasn't regretted either of those things and he sure as shit won't start now.

For all that the matter should've already been taken care of, Steve takes his sweet time prepping him. Partly because the plug is still considerably smaller than he is, and in part because he loves seeing Tony squirm and bite his lips until they're red and swollen with it. 

"I'm done, I'm ready. Steve, I swear to _God,_ " Tony heaves out, breath uneven, unable to hold off any longer. 

Steve's barely visible, satisfied smile tells him he's been waiting for his resolve to break. What a vicious, evil, cruel man. And he wants to marry that guy. Yeah, Tony's a bit of a masochist, who knew? Everyone he's ever shared a bed with, sure, but that's not the point.

The point is, Steve has actually heard him out, and the bottle of lube lands next to Tony on the mattress once he's used it to spread some of it on his _magnificent_ dick. Tony isn't a religious man, but sometimes he wants to send a prayer up there and thank whichever higher deity has gifted him with this flawless co-creation of nature and science. 

Steve is slicking up his prick, red and perfectly curved up his stomach, while Tony grabs the spare pillow next to him and pushes it underneath himself to elevate his hips (they'll be sure to complain anyway, but he couldn't care less). 

Mostly for the sake of a self-aware joke, he then makes a show of spreading his legs and dragging his hands down the insides of his thighs like he's this ripe, young thing ready for the taking–which, as established, he is the polar opposite of. He didn't account for the sense of accomplishment that overtakes him when Steve's throat bobs and his pupils dilate to the point the black is visible from Tony's spot on the bed. 

Steve is on him at lightning speed after that, sliding into the space between his legs like he belongs there–and hell, sometimes when he puts that eighth world wonder of a dick inside, Tony's inclined to believe that idea might just hold a sliver of truth. Steve pulls him flush against his body and spreads him open with one hand while he uses the other to guide the head of his cock in-between his already lube-slick asscheeks. 

Something heady flutters with excitement in his stomach; just a moment, just an _inch_ and they'll be joined. Tony fights the instinctual need to clench up as he feels the press against his rim and holds his breath until–

Nothing. 

Confused, he looks up from where he's been staring at Steve's dick, a tightly coiled knot of wanton anticipation in his gut wanting to see its length disappear inside him. 

A sliver of that too-smug smile is back. Steve's still leaning over him, and Tony doesn't fail to notice the slight tremble in his arms or the strain in his shoulders, but the man's got self-control for days when he has somewhere to channel it. 

"I wanna hear you say it, now. Not moving 'til you do. Tell me you're beautiful."

Tony can't help it.

"You're beautiful." 

He smirks at Steve. Please, he walked right into that one. 

Steve seems to see that too, because he chuckles and hangs his head in (temporary) defeat. He's quick to look back up though, and the tight, determined line between his brows hasn't faded. It's maybe even more prominent now, after Tony's used his wording to try and strip the moment of gravity. 

Tony's beginning to think maybe he walked into that one. 

"You can either say it or we'll stay right here. I can do this all day. Your call, sweetheart." 

The thing is, that's not an exaggeration. Steve _could_ do this all day, blue balls be damned. He'd probably remain right on the brink of breaching him, just to prove a point. It should be maddening (it is), except this isn't about Steve being his usual bull-headed self. Tony doesn't approve of his methods, but he is doing this _for_ Tony, in an annoying and borderline sadistic way. He chooses to deny himself instant pleasure for something so small and insignificant, because he thinks it might go some way toward helping Tony.

Insignificant–at least that's what it should be, right? Two words. Unimportant. Speaking them out loud means nothing. It doesn't prove or change anything. So why is it so hard to meet Steve's one condition? 

Tony grits his teeth. It's a lie. Saying it would mean lying. Not that he gets to pride himself on an immaculate clean slate when it comes to the act of telling (un)truths, but– But. Fuck it. This is ridiculous. He wants to get rawed right now. If Steve thinks he can't do _this_ , of all the things he's had to and been made to do in his life, he's got another thing coming. 

"I'm beautiful." Tony huffs with pretend annoyance. "There, I said it. I'm cured. _I'm beautiful._ Oh, look, I can even say it twice in a– _haa–_ " 

Tony's tirade is interrupted by his own surprised yelp as the air is punched out of him. Steve has moved, _is_ moving, and everything that was of importance before evaporates into hot air instantaneously. The push is slow and tortuous and the stretch overwhelming in the best possible way, and Tony allows a satisfied groan to slip past his lips as he relishes the feeling of being split open. 

That's it, gorgeous. Oh, _God,_ that's–

"That's right. You're gorgeous," Steve repeats from somewhere above him. A hand suddenly appears by his cheek, and Tony's eyes fly open. "Yeah. You. You are _."_

The last syllable stretches into a quiet moan, and Steve's buried in him to the hilt. Tony moves against him to check. Yeah, no more leeway there. Balls to ass. 

Steve is leaning over him, close again. The hand that previously held him open is now caressing the curve of his cheekbone, and Tony presses into his palm without a second thought. This is safe. It won't mean anything. This won't betray that Steve in him and those words coming out of his mouth are actually beginning to get the better of him. 

When Steve suggested they do this, Tony didn't think he'd care for it much. Sure, he'll never say no to an ego-boost, and maybe even less so after an episode like the one he's just had, but right now it feels like more than that. Something twists in his chest, tight and hot in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that both his pulse and breath have quickened. 

Steve, who is real, earnest, and always speaks his mind, _means_ whatever comes out of his mouth. And right now, Steve's saying all these frankly outlandish things because he, his entire, too-good-to-be-true being, is convinced that this is what Tony is. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Hell, even perfect _,_ and how is that anywhere near the truth? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, yadda yadda, but that doesn't make it make _sense–_

Why Steve? Why does he hold that romanticized image of Tony's person when actual perfection is looking back at him from the mirror every day? That's a severe case of rose-colored glasses. If anything, he's the one out of the two of them that should be told all these things. 

"Don't do that," Steve says, and Tony snaps out of it. Is he really that transparent? Ouch. And here he was thinking he's learned to hide his mental crises pretty well. (Yeah. Not from Steve. Never from Steve.) 

Tony winds his arms around Steve's shoulders and looks up at him, trying and failing not to appear sheepish. He doesn't want to keep repeating this same pattern over and over, but the downward spiral gets harder to escape the longer he entertains it. 

"There you are." 

Steve smiles, satisfied. He shifts between Tony's legs, broadening his stance, and brings his forearm down above his head while his other hand supports Tony by the hip. Tony doesn't think about how his fingers sink into the soft patch there. He thinks about it even less once Steve starts rocking into him.

They settle into a slow, almost gentle rhythm. Usually, they find themselves on the other end of that spectrum, both too impatient to slow down. Tony also has an easier time getting off when Steve's using all that super-soldier stamina and coordination to jackhammer him into the mattress (or other inanimate objects) until he's guaranteed to be too sore to walk, but this is surprisingly nice. 

The initial urgency has ebbed, leaving only comfortable pleasure that is lazy in its climb. They could probably keep at this for hours. Tony has to bite his lip at the idea. Steve fucking him for hours on end, rubbing his hole raw to the point of _gaping_ despite his best efforts to be gentle. Maybe Steve would even come, at some point, and Tony wouldn't get to because the only way he'd be allowed would be if he got off from just a cock in his ass. 

Now there's a fantasy he has yet to work up the courage to bring up to Steve. 

With a start, Tony registers the sound he's making. A low hum, the weak imitation of a long-drawn moan sitting in the back of his throat. He's been at it for a while if Steve's grin is anything to go by. 

"You wanna let me in on that one?" he asks, leaning down to lick at Tony's pulse and then suck a mark into his skin just above it. 

Tony bares his throat to give him better access, his breath stuttering for a moment. "Ah, no," he says, the secrecy deliberate. "Not quite yet."

Steve hums in agreement, signaling his understanding as he presses a last kiss just underneath Tony's jaw and then comes up again. Tony blinks at him, tilting his head a little to study the man above him. Steve is still going steady, rhythm an impeccable pattern that you'd probably be able to measure with a metronome. 

Tony squeezes around his dick at the next push and the other man's motions lose their uniformity, his hips snapping forward reflexively as he sucks in a breath. Steve tries to conjure up a disapproving glare, but he's fooling no one. Tony feels his grip tightening, sees the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat and his face screwing up minimally in concentration. 

Tony locks his legs tighter around him and pulls himself up by his shoulders, lengthening his neck to bridge the last few inches and press an open-mouthed, breathy kiss to Steve's lips. 

"Come and get it, soldier," he murmurs into the other's mouth, meeting his next stroke hard enough their skin slaps together loudly in the room's silence. It does an excellent job at driving the point home. 

Steve smiles against his lips and returns the kiss, the slide of their lips growing more heated by the second. When his hand moves to pump Tony's half-hard erection in time with his quickening thrusts, though, Tony bats his hand away. 

"Let's hold off on that one. Think I got one more round in me after this." 

If anything, that gets Steve even more ramped up. After a last, heady tongue-to-tongue that leaves Tony lightheaded, he moves up on his knees completely, pounding into him at an angle that has him grazing his prostate once every few thrusts. It would never be enough for an orgasm, but it's just the right amount to keep him stimulated and enjoying the action through a low-simmering pleasure. 

"So good, Tony," Steve huffs in-between shallow breaths. "You're so tight, feels perfect. You're so beautiful, sweetheart, I could shoot my load just looking at you."

Tony's neglected dick twitches at the words. He can feel each and every part of him as Steve has his way with his body and it's _good._ Fuck, he might not be on top of his game anymore (appearance- and performance-wise), but he's still doing this, making Steve sound and look like this, and that has to count for something.

Tony moans through clenched teeth, peeking through the slit of his half-lidded eyes to witness Steve's coming undone. The exact moment he reaches his climax, Steve buries himself up to the balls with a hard shove and a guttural groan, chin falling to his chest and fingers digging into Tony's thighs in a way that'll leave bruises of unmistakable origin. 

He shudders as he feels Steve's spend painting his insides, a rush of warm liquid in his gut. It's a sensation that is as strange as it is arousing, and he clenches around Steve's length until the other man has stopped rutting through his orgasm. Steve's eyes flutter open, his expression positively dazed but also weirdly lovestruck, and Tony feels his throat tighten as Steve's gaze lingers. 

Only for a few moments, because then Steve pulls out, and Tony wrinkles his nose at the sensation of come trickling back out with it. Thoughtful as he is, Steve has collected the butt plug from where they abandoned it on the bed, and makes to push it back inside. Tony gasps as the cool material stretches the oversensitized ring of muscle at his entrance. 

A nice flavor of humiliation bubbles up inside him when he catches Steve watching intently–teeth gnawing furiously at his lower lip–while he slips the plug in, slowly, savoring every second of Tony's used hole swallowing the new yet familiar intrusion. 

Steve flops onto his back next to him. After a moment, he rolls to his side to face him. Tony turns his head, reaching out to tenderly brush away the darker strands of hair sticking to the blond's forehead. 

"How was that?" 

"Perfect. But it always is, with you." 

Tony snorts, smile turning into a smirk. He has to bring it up now. 

"Even that one time in the kitchen when I sneezed and you–" 

"Even that one, yeah."

Tony pushes himself to the side as well, supporting his weight on his elbow. He levels Steve with a look. 

"You had a concussion." 

Steve shrugs as much as he's able to, lying there. "That was never proven. Besides, it was fun. For you, mostly."

His gaze wanders from Tony's shape off to the side, where something seems to suddenly catch his eye. He stills, and before Tony gets to snark back, Steve is heaving himself upright and off the bed. 

"Let's try something else," he says easily–ominously–and rolls his shoulders back. 

Tony can't even appreciate the view, because he's reduced to a single yelp as the bed under him moves all the sudden. Steve pushes it some ways across the room, away from the door and (oh no) toward the mirror. When he's done, the king-size is only a couple feet from the mirror, everything but the head section in view. 

Lord have mercy. Tony thought they were done with that now. 

Some of his inner devastation has obviously translated onto his face, because Steve crosses his arms over his chest and chuckles, a little sympathetic but mostly amused. 

"It won't be _that_ bad. Do me that favor, please? I'll owe you one." 

Tony pretends to think, then smirks. 

"If we're talking sexual favors, I'm in." 

Steve doesn't miss a beat. 

"Deal." 

Well, there's an incentive. 


	2. Chapter 2

Tony scoots over to the side of the bed that's closest to the mirror, having to suppress a shudder when the movement shifts the plug inside him. 

After a beat, Steve comes up onto the bed as well, his reflection in the mirror approaching from behind and then sitting down to pull Tony back into the V of his spread legs. He goes willingly, reclining against Steve's chest at an angle that's relaxing but (unfortunately) gives him an excellent view of his reflection. 

Tony, although wishing he could make himself avert his eyes, observes his debauched counterpart in the mirror with a bit of perverse fascination. 

His skin is still flushed, reddening where Steve has kissed and licked for a prolonged amount of time, and his dick is back to being almost soft between his legs. Tony has to look twice at the groin area, and–yup, his face isn't the only place the razor should've paid a visit. Not that he has the desire or stamina to keep himself free of body hair, but that jungle down there is seriously clamoring for a trim. 

Then there's the rest, which doesn't help his case either. Your stomach is bound to appear bigger when you're sitting down–call him a liar, but even Steve's isn't perfectly flat–but this is really starting to gnaw at his pride.

And Steve is _attracted_ to that? 

He looks like little more than an overpriced special edition of Average Joe, 54, proud father of three, husband to a (house)wife but married to his nine-to-five desk-job after which he returns home to complain about said wife's cooking, crack open a cold one and spend the rest of the evening on an overstuffed armchair watching _Ice Road Truckers_ or whatever. 

Steve bursts into laughter behind him. 

Whoops. Evidence suggests some of that may have made it past the filter. Honest mistake. Tony quirks an eyebrow at Steve in the mirror and does a lazy half-shrug to say, 'What? It's true, anyway'. 

It takes Steve a moment to pull himself together, but his expression still belies the barely contained laughter. 

"I knew you were judging my taste in men, but this is a bit much." 

Tony sniffs haughtily. 

"Judging your taste in men like _I should._ I mean, I am… this is tragic."

Steve heaves a heavy sigh that is intended to sound over-exaggerated but doesn't come across as all that comical. Part of him probably means it–constantly having to pull someone out of their spiraling thoughts will sure as hell become exhausting somewhere down the line. 

"C'mon, Tony. Remember, before? I meant everything I said. There's so much more here than you're allowing yourself to see." 

Tony pulls a grimace. "Is there? Because I'm sorry, but I don't… This is not me trying to rile you up, by the way. I fail to see your point."

"I know." 

Steve is doing the sad eyes again, and can he _stop_ that? It's serving no purpose but to make Tony feel guilty about something he doesn't have any real control over. Christ, it's not like he got up this morning and made the conscious decision to be a mental car-crash of a person for the rest of the day. 

Maybe the disgruntlement that's welling up inside him shows in his expression, because Steve breaks their eye-contact a moment later as he lowers his head to press a few pecks along his hairline.

Granted, he might be thinking a little too one-dimensionally here. 

Of course Steve's upset.

This isn't any different from those times he's gotten front-row tickets to the recurring shitshow that is Tony berating himself for reasons associated with emotional rather than aesthetic shortcomings (fear of commitment, inability to express emotions and insufferable neuroticism, to name a few, and no, those last two aren't mutually exclusive). Likewise, he'll be pulling a face of utter misery then as well, until such a time when he's figured out something to counteract Tony's mood with or it goes away on its own. 

Now, too, the man with a plan is on a quest to search for a solution to the problem, and–oh. Not complaining about that. His hand has reached down to wrap around Tony's cock lying against his stomach, once again limp. 

Yes, the days where he could get off just receiving are over, and it’s yet another in a long series of age-related developments that grind his gears. Even though Steve "Hopeless Optimist" Rogers would argue that, well, it just means everything they do in bed lasts longer, and that should be viewed as an opportunity rather than a hindrance. 

Tony sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when Steve's fist closes tighter around his shaft and starts working him in earnest, as opposed to the slow, lazy pulls from before. He brings up a hand to hold onto Steve's forearm–the one that's still cradling him against the other man's chest. It feels secure, limiting his range of motion in a way that is comforting instead of constricting. 

He hums in contentment and allows his head to fall back onto Steve's chest. His eyes slip shut, and everything that's left is the slowly building pleasure thrumming in his veins. A new, vigorous wave of it washes over him whenever Steve flicks his wrist at a particular angle or thumbs the slit just right. Tony notices his own lips hitch upward when the hot press of a hard line against his low back announces that Steve, for one, is ready and raring to go again. 

"Hey," Steve mumbles into his hair, nose nudging the top of his head. "Eyes open, c'mon. Want you to look." 

Tony humors him, although he does it with about the same amount of enthusiasm you'd manage to muster up for a colonoscopy.

He doesn't want to say he outright dreads the idea of witnessing all the ungainly changes in his countenance while Steve actively bangs him into next week, but he can't imagine that add-on to enrich the experience much. (Wonder-oh-wonder, the sight of him apparently does something for _Steve_ , though, and that spurs on his curiosity enough to comply.) 

As per Steve's request, he looks at the reflection in the mirror. Steve has his chin propped up on the crown of his head and smiles meaningfully at him.

"This isn't _tragic_ ," he says, voice dipping lower at the last word. Alright, he rejects Tony's thoughts on that one, that's not new. "This is amazing. Look at the fella I scored. You think that scrawny kid from Brooklyn ever thought he'd have more than a snowball's chance in hell of getting this? _You?_ Doesn't matter the amount of objective imperfections, 'cause at the end of the day, you're gorgeous and brilliant in spite of them all. And when I say you're perfect, _that_ is what I mean. Not that I want or need some flawless version of you."

Tony's throat constricts. He looks away–tries to, anyway, because Steve's hand that's been resting on his chest comes up to wrap around his jaw and turn him back to face the mirror. 

He could still close his eyes, of course he could. It's just–Steve's expression is so genuine. He's asking for nothing but his attention and to be heard out, and Tony can't refuse him, can he, when Steve's going to these lengths for _him._

If Tony wasn't such a wreck, they'd be having a nice night sitting at that restaurant Steve's been wanting to take him to for weeks now. But because that isn't the reality they live in, Steve felt the need to stay in with him and try to convince that miserable excuse of a man in the mirror that he's less miserable than his brain keeps telling him.

How's he going to make up for all that? Tony's head is reeling as he goes through everything they've planned for the near future. Maybe they can squeeze in a spontaneous trip to a private island of his. He'll even let Steve choose which one, and then he can take that opportunity to hopefully make Steve forget about this whole incident in whichever way the man may want him to. 

Said boyfriend squeezes his dick to the point of discomfort–ow, what's up with that–effectively jolting him back to the current moment in time. Tony's erection hasn't flagged at all, which is a small miracle considering his brain is occupied with everything but his carnal desires right now. 

"What I was _saying,_ beautiful," Steve kisses _that_ spot behind Tony's ear and he shudders, whether it's because of the endearment or the physical contact nobody will ever know. "It's never been about who deserves who. You know I've also had to get that into my head in my own time, but at the end of the day, this, _us,_ is a team effort. We can't reduce all that work to something so superficial, hm?" 

Steve nudges him gently, and Tony makes himself answer with a jerky nod. "Everything else–it doesn't matter. We matter. _You_. Matter."

He should know that, shouldn't he? Steve shouldn't have to tell him that. And he does know, he is in possession of the objective knowledge that relationships are about people and not about whether you're in the same league aesthetically because it's a relationship and _not_ some weird fucking version of Super Bowl where the players are judged by looks rather than performance.

But still, having Steve tell him all this so matter-of-factly like it's just another mission debrief is… that's a whole other story. 

Tony's bottom lip wobbles. He sees it in the mirror. Yikes. What is it with the mood swings today? This is a bit much even for him, and he doesn't have the excuse of being pregnant nor a toddler. 

He drags in a shaky breath to stave off the sob that threatens to escape him. This is messy. It's too much. This whole everything, it's all just, all over the place, and he needs something–he needs–

"I want," Tony says, voice so hoarse he has to clear his throat before he can continue. "I want you, right now, inside, I–" 

Looking for leverage, Tony goes for Steve's thighs that are still encircling him and tries to heave himself completely into Steve's lap. Despite the bewildered stare Tony feels boring into him, Steve, bless his soul, doesn't question the change of pace. He lifts Tony up by the waist and closes his legs so Tony can settle on top of him, knees on either side. 

Tony doesn't bother to hide the sudden, nonsensical desperation in his actions. His motions are jerky and frantic as he reaches behind him and practically rips out the plug, tossing it across the bed. The discomforting emptiness he knew to expect is almost overwhelming and accompanied by the feeling of semen and lube trailing down the underside of his thigh. 

Tony bites out a frustrated whine underneath his breath. He is losing his _grip,_ damnit, and he needs something to hold onto, but apparently the whole frenzy has made him forget where in human anatomy the asshole is located because he can't get Steve's dick inside–

"Here, let me," Steve says, very close, the side of his face pressed against Tony's. He's pretty sure the sweat that's making their skin stick together like that is his own, and why is he so warm all of a sudden? 

Steve takes his cock from Tony's hand and puts a steadying hand on his hip as he navigates it between his cheeks. The sensation of it dragging over his already irritated skin is good and familiar, grounding while also making both his stomach and hole flutter in anticipation. Tony manages to wait until the head has caught onto his rim, and then he lets himself glide down without any further ado. The sudden intrusion comes with a distant, familiar ache that Tony refuses to pay any mind. He hears Steve's breath stutter and moans in relief as he finally comes to sit fully in the other man's lap. 

Every time, it's like this. It's so much and so good and _how_ does he get this? Being filled and connected with this man in every sense. Tony trembles, his own personal earthquake shaking through him as all the built-up tension leaves him in a rush. 

"That alright?" Steve asks quietly. Quiet and–worried? Tony squints at him in the mirror, his vision blurry. It's with a rather large portion of dread that Tony touches a hand to his face, more heat crawling up his neck as soon as he feels his fingers coming away wet.

A surge of mortification rolls over him. If he looked debauched before, he doesn't want to know what his reflection is showing this time around. Maybe it's a good thing he can't see for shit right now. His voice sounds self-conscious even to his own ears when he says, "This is messy, huh?" 

Steve lays down a fleeting kiss on the top of his spine and Tony feels the lips on his skin twitch with an unidentifiable emotion. 

"You're allowed to be. Sorry. I didn't think it was gonna be that much," he answers, and he does sound sorry. A little guilty, almost. 

Tony decides not to argue, because they've got more important matters to attend to at the time. He may not have many things in order, but at the very least his priorities. 

"You could make it up to me." He squeezes around Steve's dick and musters up a grin, although he doesn't have to see it to know it hardly passes as one.

Tony has to hold onto Steve’s shoulder for support when the other man moves them closer to the mirror, close enough that Tony’s knees are near the edge of the mattress and he feels it dip beneath them. If he thought his own reflection was a turn-off before, this close-up sure is teaching him to be grateful for small mercies. Note to past self for when he finally cracks time-travel: _You haven’t seen anything yet, buddy._

Steve curls his hands around Tony’s waist, rests his chin on his shoulder with a smile and says, “I want you to fuck yourself on my cock and tell me why _you_ think I love you how you are.”

“I–what?”

Steve tightens his hold around him a fraction, smile growing ever so slightly more smug because he managed to leave Tony lost for words. 

“You heard me.”

Don’t count your chickens, mister. 

“Why you love how I–? Because you’re a gullible idiot with bad taste, I thought we established that already,” he quips, just about keeping himself from sticking his tongue out like a kid refusing to eat his greens. 

Let’s just say the reaction he gets isn’t quite the one he expected. Instead of rolling his eyes or sighing in long-suffering exasperation, Steve’s smile remains stapled onto the sinful curve of his lips. Almost like he’s got another card to play, and it’s one that’ll win him the game.

“You’re abstaining from your orgasm tonight, then?”

Tony’s face falls. He’s glaring at Steve, but he can see his own expression in the mirror regardless. The undiluted horror communicated by his widened eyes and gaping mouth would be comical to look at were the situation not so very dire. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’m hurt to find you don’t know me at all, beloved.”

Cruel. Vicious. Evil. Something has to be wrong with him, wanting to spend the rest of his life with this man. Well, no shit, but–goddamn it. How much worse can it realistically get? Trying to compliment himself will be awkward, stupid and terrible for sure, but at least he’ll get off. No blue balls is a pretty good payoff, all things considered. _And_ all of this adds up to how big of a favor Steve’ll be willing to give in return eventually, so logic dictates he can’t not do it.

Tony inhales and steels himself.

“You win for now, Rogers,” he says begrudgingly. 

One of his hands reaches out to support himself on Steve’s arm as he lifts himself from his lap and halfway to his knees until he feels only the tip of Steve’s cock left in him. A soft moan escapes him as he sinks down, the pleasant friction causing the desire pooling in his abdomen to flare back up in the same way a puddle of gasoline will take to a lit match.

Biting his lip–and biting it bloody–Tony rises back up, feeling Steve’s gaze burning holes into his skin. (There’s the matchbox.) The back of his neck heats with a pleasant shade of humiliation that comes from being watched in one’s pleasure.

“Well?”

He already feels like he won’t be able to string two words together in a hot minute. Is that a good enough excuse to just keep quiet? Can he dare? Steve’s narrowed gaze suggests that no, he doesn’t even want to try wiggling himself out of this one.

This should be easy. Here's Tony Stark, there’s a problem. Go solve it. 

“Uh, where,” he groans as gravity drives him back onto Steve’s length and brushes his prostate just enough to send a spike of heat straight to his dick. “Where do you want me to start?”

Steve just looks at him, hands still on his waist and pointedly not moving anywhere near his erection.

“I guess, I. You, uh. I know you think the gray makes me look _sophisticated,”_ he says, and Steve evidently doesn’t like the tone. Tony clears his throat and moves up again. “And, the scars. You, um, you don’t like how they came to be, but you think they’re a reminder of how far I’ve come and what it took to get here, and that’s. Why you think they're beautiful.”

The other man hums in approval, one hand trailing up to rub over his sternum and then reaching over to twist one of his nipples with just enough pressure to hover on the threshold to pain. It's delicious, especially once his other hand travels down his abdomen and starts rubbing over his stomach while deliberately avoiding Tony’s hard-on.

“Keep going,” Steve says casually, knowing perfectly well the effort it takes to both move independently and string coherent sentences together with a dick up your ass and someone fondling various erogenous zones. 

Tony lifts himself back up, relishing the emptiness in the knowledge that being filled again will be all the more satisfying. “I think you like the way I am when it's just us. You like me in the workshop and, uh, I guess in bed, because I'm at my most–natural there, and…”

He pauses, having to think and then forgetting everything when he lets himself drop all at once. Tony doesn’t bother to hold back the wanton groan from deep in his chest as he grinds down against Steve’s groin to be stuffed full up to the last half inch. 

Through half-lidded eyes, he observes his reflection, feeling distanced from the man in the mirror as though someone else is looking back at him. His counterpart is flushed all over, some strands of his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, dick leaving a wet smear against his hipbone. 

He looks horribly, visibly, gloriously wanton. 

Wanton and _wanted,_ encircled by Steve’s arms, his front plastered against Tony’s back and hands rubbing up and down his torso as though he doesn’t know which part of Tony to shower with attention first. 

_Someone should paint this,_ Tony thinks, in a fit of stupidity or maybe brilliance. He isn’t sure. If the sight were a little less promiscuous, a bedsheet thrown over their groins, he could imagine this scene in a Renaissance painting. 

Steve took him out to a special exhibit on the maestros of the Renaissance a few years ago. Tony isn't unknowledgeable in the fine arts–he was once the proud owner of a collection that totalled 482 million dollars, and contrary to popular belief, Pepper hadn’t curated it all by herself–and he'd always known enough to drum up conversations throughout the many exhibitions he attended as an interested party as well as a PR stunt. 

Steve, though, he saw things Tony didn’t even think to consider, had differing opinions and perspectives to offer and was invested to a point Tony debated with himself over whether he should put together a whole new collection just to surprise Steve for their big anniversary. (He may or may not have given into the urge.) 

Point being, they studied those paintings together and came to the conclusion that they weren’t perfect. Masterpieces, sure, but there’s no true golden standard that every single one of them can be compared and held up to because that’s just… not how art works. (Tony is pretty sure there's a metaphor about ideals of beauty somewhere in there.)

“Go on,” Steve says, close enough his breath tickles Tony’s ear and pulls him gently out of his musings. Where was he? Tony doesn't remember, and he can’t say that Steve finally, _finally_ wrapping his hand around his weeping dick helps jog his memory. 

“C’mon. What else?”

He moans in answer, bucking into Steve’s fist and thereby fucking the other man's cock in and out of himself by a few precious inches. Steve doesn’t move or tighten his fingers around him which, okay, Tony figures is fair. He can work with that. 

Maybe, though, if he gives Steve just a little more, he’s going to get a proper handjob. And then, nothing will be standing between him and that orgasm anymore save for his own body–but he doesn’t think that’s going to be a problem tonight, what with how he could crawl out of his skin with pleasure. 

It hasn’t felt that intense in a long time. His chest is tight and hot with it, pulse knocking in his throat and his gut coiled into a million knots of pleasure he feels might just release any moment considering how tight his balls feel already. He's starting to think this might turn out to be the best sex they’ve had in a while. Not that it usually isn’t spectacular, but this is otherworldly. 

Tony speeds up his pace a little, bursts of pleasure zapping up his spine and exploding into small fireworks behind his eyes each time Steve’s cock rubs over his sweet spot, the loose circle of Steve's fist around him the perfect counterweight.

Tony would squeeze his eyes shut, somehow thinks that would make it easier concentrate, but there’s something that tells him he _has_ to keep looking. Maybe that something is Steve. Maybe it’s his private, sudden desire to witness himself fall apart on the off-chance that there will be something to discover that’ll get him to understand what it is that Steve _sees_ here. 

Because what Tony sees is– “I think you like how I fit, ah, into you, and how we look with each other because it looks like we belong. I remember you saying you love seeing the lines when I, _mh_ , laugh because that means you gotta have done something right. You love–my eyes because, it’s–I’m so, I know I’m transparent, that’s why I wear sunglasses indoors for fuck’s sake–”

Steve laughs, a strange sound to be hearing between breathy moans and gasps, but the grounding vibrations against his back are appreciated regardless. Tony’s grin slips off his face when he nails the right angle on the next downward shove and nearly fails to lift himself again when his thighs begin to tremble with sudden exertion. 

“Most of all, I love feeling you and being with you like this,” Steve mumbles against his skin as he presses open-mouthed kisses there, the words almost drowned out by the wet sounds their bodies produce. “Because you glow when you let yourself go, and every inch of you is just–gorgeous, it’s real and it’s you and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Tony hears himself whimper as Steve’s fist finally tightens around him, pre-come easing the slide as he begins jerking him in deliberate strokes. The picture in the mirror is absolutely filthy, and even _Tony_ wouldn’t want it any other way. Not that he’s got any processing capacity left to contemplate alternate scenarios when all he can think about is the friction of Steve’s palm and the drag of the cock inside him. 

“Steve, _baby,_ ” he moans, hastily reaching out behind him until his fingers find Steve’s jaw. The other man gets the gist, leaning down and crashing their mouths together in uncoordinated desperation that is all the better for its imperfections. Spit dribbles down his chin, the kiss not dampening the urgency but rather stoking the flames, fire feeding from fire.

Tony cracks his eye open to steal a glance at the mirror. Steve’s curled over him to be able to make kissing easier on Tony’s neck (because of course he’d consider this), forcing him to lean forward. The hand on his erection is pumping him with the clear intent to grant his long-awaited happy ending, and the upward-hitch of Steve’s hips is incrementally growing higher as he’s chasing his own release.

They’re both going to need more. Tony breaks the kiss that wasn’t so much of a kiss as a messy exchange of saliva, and bats Steve's hand away from his cock to put it back on his waist along with the other one. Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. 

While Tony gets himself off, Steve takes hold of him and slams him down on his dick like a ragdoll. Or another kind of doll, come to think of it. Either way, being manhandled like some fucktoy is criminally hot, and Tony feels himself shake as the pleasure ripples through him in building oscillations. God, he’s so close, he just needs–

“Harder,” he demands, taking note of how wretched he sounds and not caring in the slightest. Steve heeds the request immediately, and Tony squeezes around him to make the resistance that much better. “More, Steve, ha–"

Tony tips off the edge in a moment he hasn’t expected to fall–but he's pinching the head of his dick just so and Steve expertly hammers into his prostate like he’s installed a GPS tracker in there, and that’s everything it takes for the last stitch to come undone. 

Sobbing with both the overwhelming intensity and relief, Tony bucks into his fist and slams back into the spear of Steve’s dick as though his body can’t decide which sensation it wants to chase. Then, he’s arching his back and throwing his head onto Steve’s shoulder. He’s pretty sure that dying animal noise is his, too. 

For a second, there’s nothing.

Tony doesn’t believe it in the first moment he comes back to (because holy _shit_ ) but the moisture on his stomach and the fantastic fullness he’s feeling are testament to it: he’s blacked out for the time it took Steve to come. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, because an attempt to articulate the wildly spinning clusterfuck of thoughts in his head would be an exercise in futility. “Remind me to tell you how much I love you more,” Tony adds, in-between his still heaving breath. His reflection looks like he’s gone five rounds minimum, which just goes to show how blessed he is to have Steve (and his stamina). 

Steve chuckles, a warm sound that goes right to Tony’s heart and makes a home for itself there. A hand comes up to brush the wayward strands of hair out of his vision and then winds around his waist alongside the other one, neverminding the fact that he’s messy with his own come.

“Will do,” Steve mumbles against his neck, pressing a fleeting kiss there. It stings and he winces, which in turn has Steve voicing an apology. 

Looks like he’s going to be sporting a mark of ownership for the next week or so. Tony would pretend to be annoyed, but they both know he’s going to be flaunting it until someone will make him cover up because the implications apparently are too much for the gaggle of 12 year olds that the world calls Earth's Mightiest Heroes. 

“Think I met my maker there for a second,” Tony jokes. Steve hums in agreement as he brushes one hand through his sweat-damp hair, scratching his scalp gently. “And to think you almost decided to miss out on that,” he tuts, grin plastered across every syllable, “unbelievable.”

Tony contemplates forcing his eyes open just to be able to roll his eyes at Steve in the mirror, but finds he's too lazy to. Instead, he scoffs, unable to stifle the faintest trace of a fond smile. “Shut up. I already said you won this round, don’t push it."

Steve chuckles and lets him have the last word. 

They don't move and don't talk for a while. There was a time when that would've made his skin crawl with discomfort–he's never liked silence, and his ~~talent~~ compulsion to fill it with words doesn't stem from just thereabouts. 

Now, Tony savors the familiar quiet between them; it's a reassurance that they don't need to talk to communicate. Steve's lips resting on his neck mumble _I love you_ without moving _,_ the fingers squeezing his belly say _I treasure you_ , and the warmth of Steve all around him echoes variations of _I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere._

There's also Steve's dick, which is still plugging him up and the message here is crystal as well: _I'm ready for a third round._

Because of course he is. 

Upon opening his eyes, Tony catches Steve lick what is presumably a drop of come off his palm. Which is interesting, because Tony is pretty sure he was still covered in his own a while ago, and now he's squeaky clean without either of them having moved for a tissue. 

"Did you just–" 

Steve lodges their mouths together before he gets to ask, but the question is rendered redundant anyway once he tastes himself on the other man's tongue. 

One day. One day, his tired, old heart is going to give out and nobody will ever know it was good ol' Captain America's sexual deviancy that did him in. Hell, there's worse ways to go. 

When they part, Steve brushes his thumb over Tony's bottom lip and breathes 'I love you' into his mouth, and Tony says it back because while _just_ _knowing_ is nice, being reaffirmed in that knowledge is even better. 

They exchange lazy, open-mouthed kisses for a while. Steve eventually breaks the chain and leans his forehead against Tony's, which is a little awkward with how they're seated, but he doesn't have it in him to complain once he's at the receiving end of Steve's gaze–a vulnerable, soft, _stupidly_ enamored thing. It is also when Steve looks at him that his erection gives a twitch within Tony, and _that_ is all sorts of flattering and mind-boggling. 

Tony nibbles at the inside of his cheek. 

"You should go again." 

Steve stares. 

"Uh, sure?" he answers after a beat, taken by surprise if the pitch of his voice is to be trusted. 

The hesitation isn't unwarranted. Tony is usually the one to call it quits on their lovemaking sooner rather than later because his body oh-so-kindly reminds him–in multiple places, not just his ass–that he isn't cut out for prolonged bouts of this sort of activity anymore. Said activity being fucking like rabbits, that is.

Unsurprisingly, he can already feel an ache building up in his low back, and his neck has been stiff ever since their first go when he just _had_ to rake himself to meet Steve halfway instead of lying back and playing pillow princess like the man obviously wanted him to. 

Well, his body hasn't ever done him any favors, so Tony isn't inclined to play nice now. Best things come in threes and all that. Literally. He'll get his (Steve's) three, consequences be damned. 

"My one condition being that you keep this thing up," Tony says, going for casual as he waves his hand around in front of him in a way of extremely poor explanation. 

The gesture really doesn't do the unspoken justice, but he doesn't know how to say _'Make love to me, tell me I'm worth every drop of your come, every kiss and every single touch to this old, scarred body'_ without sounding all that desperate and melodramatic, so he's going to stick with easy-going. 

His practiced nonchalance is nothing in the face of Steve, who so often reads him like a book in ways that make Tony want to scowl at and kiss him at the same time (and he has done both on a variety of occasions), now squints at his suspiciously neutral expression in the mirror–and promptly begins to look much too smug for Tony's liking. 

"Can it be? Is there a… kink here I didn't know about?" 

His voice is laced with feigned incredulity and Tony hates him a little for it. Not really, but he shifts in Steve's lap to get his revenge, causing the younger man to suck in a sharp breath as his undoubtedly still oversensitized cock gets jostled with the movement. 

Tony ignores their reflection for a moment in favor of looking up at real Steve with a wink. "You know I just like having my ego stroked in every way imaginable, handsome." 

The words receive the desired response: Steve huffs a sudden laughter, and something in Tony that isn't Steve's dick swells and tingles pleasantly with the sound. Eventually though, his laugh trickles off and leaves only a subdued smile–Steve is aware he's only deflecting. 

The knowledge that the hidden barriers he's putting up are futile when it comes to Steve doesn't bring the once standard-issue dread with it. Incredibly, Tony has learned to accept that the whole package-deal of a stable relationship includes letting your significant other in, inviting them to figure you out and vice versa. 

It's been a slow-going process, and yet he's here, suddenly stripped of all his defenses and bare in a way that has nothing to do with his state of undress. 

So maybe, he likes this a little more than he ever thought possible. It's not like his enjoyment is highly clandestine, considering just a couple of minutes ago he came so hard he _passed out._

Tony isn't sure if he'd go so far as to call it a kink, because it isn't primarily about the (fantastic, mind-blowing, magnificent) sex. It's that blend of physical and emotional intimacy that is really getting to his source code here. Perhaps that should be unsettling, how starved for this particular flavor of validation he apparently is, but he isn't in the mood to ruin the moment right now. 

Not when Steve's smiling at him like that, tender and eyes crinkling as he carefully studies Tony's shape before him. He's also tracing a line up and down Tony's side, over a small scar by his abdomen and up to his ribs. And it would be all nice and dandy just like this if Steve wasn't hard and his length _wasn't_ impaling him in an urgent, prostate-stimulating reminder of that third round he's been promised. 

"Are you gonna get a move on?" 

He smirks at Steve, who mirrors his expression. 

"Whatever you want, beautiful." 

The term of endearment still has something flutter pleasantly in his stomach, and he'd feel self-conscious about the heat in his cheeks if it wasn't so damn nice. It's a pass on the mask, this time around: Tony's going all out, emotional fallout be damned.

Steve reciprocates some of Tony's initially playful tone, choosing to let the subtle reaction go unmentioned. "Just wanted to let you catch your breath. You'll need it."

Tony snorts, but it's in fondness. 

"Like I don't know." 

Steve starts him out slow. Tony’s grateful and annoyed about it at the same time, because while going easy on his body will minimize soreness later, he wants that circumstance to not factor into the way Steve chooses to treat him for once. 

Sometimes a man just wants to get fucked like he’s 25, absolutely cockeyed and in the company of three charming gentlemen who are with him for precisely one reason, which is that they won’t be gentle whatsoever.

He tells Steve as much, who snorts and then asks, a little apprehensively, if that’s an actual example from his past. Tony only winks at him, and that’s enough to spur him into action–maybe to prove that he can make Tony feel that way all by himself. That little possessive streak he gets sometimes is more attractive than it has any right to be.

Steve shuffles far enough back on the bed he can maneuver them into a different position. It’s only for a moment, but as Tony gets on his hands on knees and Steve slips out of him in the process, the feeling of emptiness is overpowering. He’s become so used to the intrusion that now, his insides feel incomplete, open, stripped apart and dripping as he is. 

The relief that overtakes him when Steve nudges his legs apart and then slides back into place without the littlest resistance is almost better than another orgasm would be. It feels right. Steve belongs with Tony–it’s a natural fact, like Newton’s laws or the sky being blue. There’s no argument to be made against it. They just are.

Steve gets a rhythm going, not pulling out fully but enough the push inside is rewarding. Tony’s wrists tire of the position quickly, so he lowers himself onto his chest and forearms but keeps his ass raised for Steve to pound into. 

Other than the occasional spike of sharp pleasure-pain from his prostate, the feeling of Steve inside almost comforting. His pace is sure and steady, his hands securing Tony in an iron grip, his groin radiating warmth where they’re joined and keep joining, over and over.

Distantly, it occurs to him that as much as he once thought booze was a mandatory ingredient for a good time, it now only takes Steve to make him feel like he’s floating, perfectly out of his mind. Tony feels a touch delirious, achingly full and willing to let Steve take everything and more without a moment's hesitation. 

The mirror shows them from the side; Tony drinks in the image presented there. Steve’s an unstoppable force behind him, skin glistening with sweat, muscles rippling as his hips piston back and forth in tandem with the grunts forced out of his lungs. His face is a colorful blend of emotions directly aimed at Tony. 

Tony–who lies there, spread apart, turned inside out and gasping broken little noises–looks like the personification of lust. His reflection is sweaty in a way that somehow isn’t as attractive as Steve’s, his dick slapping against his thigh with every thrust and his stomach graced with a soft curve where Steve's is flat. 

This is them. Right now, Tony can't think of a single way he could complement the picture any better than he already does. 

"We're beautiful," he tells Steve, through the cushions he's deposited his face on. It feels and sounds like something of an epiphany, a _eureka_ usually reserved for when he's 53 hours into a workshop binge and his neurons are firing a million miliamperes per second and his eyes are bloodshot and his smile is manic because _of course,_ of course this is it. 

He's figured it out. 

(And then, depending on the time of day, Steve will use this breakthrough as an excuse to finally drag him into bed, or Tony might come down from his inventing high and realize he could do with some human contact right about now, which will have him crawling into bed next to Steve (stinky, at an ungodly hour) and be caught in a tangle of limbs immediately because the man gravitates toward him even in sleep.)

 _Of course,_ Tony thinks, just as Steve drives into him with renewed vigor like somehow the words have led him to express his want even more urgently. _This is it._

"You got it, sweetheart," Steve says. They moan in unison when he grazes Tony's prostate again and Tony, in turn, clenches up from this sensation that's right in the wondrous territory of too much, too good. "Let me hear more."

It hits him like a ton of bricks, a gut-punch or something a little more pleasant: this is a _thing_ for Steve. Tony being nice to himself helps get him off. That's where they are now, where Tony has gotten them, and… he can work with that. 

"I am, too," he adds, a little out of breath not because of physical exertion but because Steve's practically shoving the air out of him with increasingly powerful thrusts. "I am–ah–beautiful. Like you said. I am, I–look so good underneath you, Steve, baby, God, I wish I could–" his breath hitches, "–see where you're fucking me open, I bet it's even hotter from up there, isn't it?" 

As if following a command, Steve looks down at where they're connected. Where he's driving relentlessly in and out of Tony’s body, marking him and assuring him that he _is_ worth this with every stroke, that there's something so intrinsically desirable about who Tony is it won't matter either way what the decades bring because he just wants _Tony,_ now and forever. 

And that's when he feels himself spacing out, strings of words falling from his lips without his permission or any conscious decision made, "I've always had a nice, ah, piece of ass, haven't I? Thighs too, that's all–all squats, baby. And I, mhhh, I haven't lifted he–ah–vy machinery all my life for no reason. I know it shows, in my back, and you always stare at my arms when I–that's why I keep wearing tanks around the workshop–"

Steve is like a goddamn battering ram, and Tony knows he's close with how fast and unrelenting his speed has become and the desperate edge in his tone when he says, "More, Tony, say it again, tell me again–" 

The delirious babble must be the product of Steve gradually wearing him down this evening and his general post-coital candor (there's a reason he quickly made himself scarce after every tumble in the sheets during the early days of their relationship). Because Tony, frankly, doesn't care whatsoever about anything but the feeling of Steve, the way it's making him drool into the pillow, dizzy and stupid until he's so far past any rational thought he doesn't even pause to think of what's about to spill out of him. 

"I'm so beautiful for you, Steve, just you," he moans, and it takes nothing more to make the other man lose himself, his movements erratic as he crowds Tony into the mattress. 

"All that gorgeous and _nnng_ –handsome just for you, how's that feel?" Tony asks, hoarse, and that's when Steve bows over him and cries out as he climaxes. He comes in a steady pulse, coating Tony's insides with another layer of his come, another irrefutable token of his attraction. 

Steve rocks into his backside for a few more thrusts until he's climbed the peak and made it to the other side of the mountain, dazed and spent. They exchange a look in the mirror, and Tony grins, ths cotton candy still stuffed into the spaces around his brain making it increasingly hard to produce a quick quip. Steve shares the sentiment–he's slow to heave himself back upright from his bent-over position, and once he does, he rubs over the bruised patches of skin on Tony's hips, waist and ass with an odd kind of awe. 

Finally, he deigns to rearrange their position and rolls them to the side, now facing the mirror full on–Tony couldn't have moved on his own even if he wanted to. Part of him is convinced his joints and muscles have changed their chemical makeup and physically turned to goo, because there's no other explanation that makes sense at the current time. 

Steve pulls out with a wet squelch and hot, pulsing throb in his entrance that Tony can’t even conjure up the presence of mind to feel humiliated about. In its stead, he feels deeply sated and perfectly content–some overworked muscle groups definitely won’t be thanking him come tomorrow, but that’s nothing he can’t live with. 

Something he _will_ need some time adjusting to is how utterly gaping and open everything feels once Steve's gone. It's as though the man carved out some space inside Tony just for himself and now that its intended occupant is gone, everything that's left is a void. 

For a moment, it looks as if Steve’s moving to get up, but then he relaxes against Tony's back again. Tony allows himself to bask in the haze of the afterglow while he still can. 

In a while, the mess between his legs will become too uncomfortable to ignore, and they’ll have to move. Steve will push the bed back to its initial place, they’ll change the covers, and the mirror will still be there, and Tony’s still going to pass it every once in a while and inevitably think about the various imperfections that will have caught his eye at a moment's notice. 

Even now, he could once again point out a slew of things in his reflection he can’t stand to see anymore–many of which Steve's managed to make him speak fondly of just a few minutes ago. Steve isn’t a wizard, though. (Thank God for that; Tony hates magic.)

He isn't, but he sees the sharp glint of self-deprecation in Tony’s eyes anyway, and grasps his hand that has formed a fist laying on the mattress in front of him. Tony doesn’t find a reason to resist, so he lets Steve’s palm cover the back of his hand and guide it up to lay over his chest–right there above his heart.

After everything that’s been done to scar it so irreversibly, it’s still beating. That is no minor feat, even he has to admit. Tony can’t help the tiny smile sneaking onto his lips–just a twitch, but the movement speaks volumes in Steve’s presence, who is so attuned to his every micro-expression it should be scary. 

Steve slides his fingers between Tony's, pressing their palms into his chest to wordlessly emphasize the statement. It’s a nice sentiment, so universal there’s no need for it to be spoken out loud. 

_It’s_ _your heart, Tony. The rest doesn't matter._

A thing he's also told Steve before because he isn't the only one with issues in this relationship, mind you. Sometimes it just feels like Steve is making more progress than he does, which he'll admit is a stupid thing to be thinking because _'Not everything is a competition, Tony. We talked about this, remember? Healing doesn't happen the same way for everyone, that's why we can't measure our own progress with someone else's ruler.'_

Erica is a smart woman. He should probably stop skipping his therapy sessions.

Someone’s stomach grumbles at the approximate volume of an approaching freight train, and Tony is promptly reminded that them not going out for dinner also meant missing out on a scheduled intake of sustenance, which has gone far from unnoticed by Steve’s metabolism–especially considering their most recent activities. 

“Figures you'd be hungry after that performance,” Tony teases, smirking because he can’t help it. “Stud.” Steve rolls his eyes at him and presses a quick peck to his jaw, which is when Tony is blessed by a sudden stroke of genius. 

“Say, do these guys do deliveries?”

Steve moves his left eyebrow up in an unambiguous manner and says, “I’m sure they do when Captain America asks _really_ nicely.”

Tony decides tackling his dietary habits can wait another day or two.

**Author's Note:**

> drop me a line if you enjoyed! it's always appreciated.


End file.
